You’re the one who last saw her, Dad. What did she say to you that might have a bearing on things ? ”
“To me?” Greg looked somehow startled. Mostly, Clare thought, because of Marilyn’s casual way of immediately re-involving him in the family web. “Why should she talk to me about her innermost thoughts and feelings?”
“Well, you’re her father,” Marilyn pointed out in a matter-of-fact tone of voice. “Girls do confide in their fathers. And there were just the two of you on your own. I thought you might have had some heart - to-heart talks together.”
“No.” Greg, who had sat down again, shifted slightly in his chair. “We didn’t do that.”
“Pity,” replied Marilyn with slightly impertinent good-humour. “You wasted an opportunity.”
Then, before anyone could add anything to that, the telephone rang and Marilyn, who was beside it, picked up the receiver.
Clare watched anxiously, with hope in her eyes. But this died away to the familiar disappointment as she heard her daughter say, “Yes, he’s here. Just a moment.”
Then, to her utter amazement, Marilyn turned to her father and, still in that rather cheeky tone, remarked,
“A call for you from Munich. It’s a woman’s voice. Let’s hope it’s not Mrs. Curtiss following you up here.”
If there was surprise in Clare’s face, it was nothing to the dark flush of angry astonishment which swept into her husband’s face, and he took the receiver from Marilyn with something less than gentleness.
At the same time, Clare saw an extraordinary expression come over Marilyn’s face—as though she had over-reached herself in some way and was wondering how on earth to get back again.”
Mostly to avoid overhearing the telephone conversation, C lare said quietly to her daughter, “Who is Mrs. Curtiss? I don’t seem to remember—”
“It’s all right. A slip of the tongue,” Marilyn assured her airily. “It’s nice to have Dad home, isn’t it?”
Clare said, “Yes,” because it was impossible to say, “No,” and in any case, she was glad to have him home, however briefly, even though so far his coming seemed to have brought as much pain as pleasure.
Greg was still speaking on the telephone as she wheeled out the tea-trolley into the kitchen, but when she came back a few minutes later he was putting down the receiver.
“That was from my place in Munich. I asked the landlady to phone me if any letter came for me from England. There was one an hour ago, but I’ve established that it had nothing to do with Pat. And now, young lady—” he turned grimly on his younger daughter—“exactly what did you mean by that remark as you handed me the phone ? ”
“Oh—” Marilyn was still trying to be airily nonchalant, Clare saw—“it was just a bit of daughterly cheek.”
“With an impertinent sting in it, if I’m not mistaken. I’d like to know what you were hinting about Mrs. Curtiss.”
“Who,” asked Clare mildly, “is Mrs. Curtiss?” With a very nice sense of timing, Marilyn left her
father to answer that one. Then, just as he drew breath to do so, she said,
“No one at all important, Mother. Just one of those pretty, rather boringly designing widows who run after attractive men like Dad. Pat was rather amusing about her.”
“When?” demanded her parents in unison.
“In the last letter she wrote from Munich.”
“I never saw any letter she wrote from Munich !” exclaimed Clare. “I thought she wrote only postcards.”
“She wrote one letter to me, about a week ago. I didn’t show it to you. It was just a gossipy sort of letter between her and me. I don’t always show you my letters.” Marilyn looked suddenly on the defensive.
“No, of course not. I wouldn’t expect you to,” Clare said quickly. “But in the circumstances, any letter from Pat might contain an important clue. Don’t you think we—you should look at it again?”
“I threw it away.”
“Oh, Mari!”
“It had nothing of
“To me?” Greg looked somehow startled. Mostly, Clare thought, because of Marilyn’s casual way of immediately re-involving him in the family web. “Why should she talk to me about her innermost thoughts and feelings?”
“Well, you’re her father,” Marilyn pointed out in a matter-of-fact tone of voice. “Girls do confide in their fathers. And there were just the two of you on your own. I thought you might have had some heart - to-heart talks together.”
“No.” Greg, who had sat down again, shifted slightly in his chair. “We didn’t do that.”
“Pity,” replied Marilyn with slightly impertinent good-humour. “You wasted an opportunity.”
Then, before anyone could add anything to that, the telephone rang and Marilyn, who was beside it, picked up the receiver.
Clare watched anxiously, with hope in her eyes. But this died away to the familiar disappointment as she heard her daughter say, “Yes, he’s here. Just a moment.”
Then, to her utter amazement, Marilyn turned to her father and, still in that rather cheeky tone, remarked,
“A call for you from Munich. It’s a woman’s voice. Let’s hope it’s not Mrs. Curtiss following you up here.”
If there was surprise in Clare’s face, it was nothing to the dark flush of angry astonishment which swept into her husband’s face, and he took the receiver from Marilyn with something less than gentleness.
At the same time, Clare saw an extraordinary expression come over Marilyn’s face—as though she had over-reached herself in some way and was wondering how on earth to get back again.”
Mostly to avoid overhearing the telephone conversation, C lare said quietly to her daughter, “Who is Mrs. Curtiss? I don’t seem to remember—”
“It’s all right. A slip of the tongue,” Marilyn assured her airily. “It’s nice to have Dad home, isn’t it?”
Clare said, “Yes,” because it was impossible to say, “No,” and in any case, she was glad to have him home, however briefly, even though so far his coming seemed to have brought as much pain as pleasure.
Greg was still speaking on the telephone as she wheeled out the tea-trolley into the kitchen, but when she came back a few minutes later he was putting down the receiver.
“That was from my place in Munich. I asked the landlady to phone me if any letter came for me from England. There was one an hour ago, but I’ve established that it had nothing to do with Pat. And now, young lady—” he turned grimly on his younger daughter—“exactly what did you mean by that remark as you handed me the phone ? ”
“Oh—” Marilyn was still trying to be airily nonchalant, Clare saw—“it was just a bit of daughterly cheek.”
“With an impertinent sting in it, if I’m not mistaken. I’d like to know what you were hinting about Mrs. Curtiss.”
“Who,” asked Clare mildly, “is Mrs. Curtiss?” With a very nice sense of timing, Marilyn left her
father to answer that one. Then, just as he drew breath to do so, she said,
“No one at all important, Mother. Just one of those pretty, rather boringly designing widows who run after attractive men like Dad. Pat was rather amusing about her.”
“When?” demanded her parents in unison.
“In the last letter she wrote from Munich.”
“I never saw any letter she wrote from Munich !” exclaimed Clare. “I thought she wrote only postcards.”
“She wrote one letter to me, about a week ago. I didn’t show it to you. It was just a gossipy sort of letter between her and me. I don’t always show you my letters.” Marilyn looked suddenly on the defensive.
“No, of course not. I wouldn’t expect you to,” Clare said quickly. “But in the circumstances, any letter from Pat might contain an important clue. Don’t you think we—you should look at it again?”
“I threw it away.”
“Oh, Mari!”
“It had nothing of
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